


Analysis

by shadow_in_the_shade



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Rape Fantasy, Semi-Public Sex, gun kink (a little bit), i do not think i have used the word fuck so many times in one fic before, i mean seriously, minor implied self-cest (Armistice/ Hanaryo), only it's not even slightly rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 12:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/pseuds/shadow_in_the_shade
Summary: Hector/ Maeve porn, set sometime in ShogunWorld. Confessions are made and feels may be occurring.





	Analysis

 

**Analysis**

 

 

“I thought about it, you know,” she says, and probably far more of their group than Hector hears her through the darkness, somewhere on the road to Snow Lake; even though they're lying way off from the rest under cover beneath a strange tree, sound carries, and it occurs to her that given the nature of this confession she does actually give a fuck and remembers to talk quieter.

 

“Thought about – what?”

 

He mumbles (grumbles?) it into her neck, half asleep already because _men._ She sighs; they need everything spelled out for them, even this one that she may be half in love with, but even if she's talking about _this_ she certainly isn't even going to start thinking about _that._

 

“Fucking you.” She almost says _of course,_ but it's hard to sound irate under your breath in her clipped tones, and her voice softens - “Although, of course -”

 

Although, of course, it was more _him_ fucking _her_ she had been thinking of. There is a difference and, it occurs to her, quite a big one; certainly big enough to bother her and in these circumstances almost embarrassing.

 

“I thought about it,” she says again, “Just like every girl in Sweetwater.”

 

“You are _not_ every girl.” Something in his tone suggests he might have a confession of his own after this, and though her ears prick with interest she ignores it for now. Of _course_ she saw the looks girls gave each other every time he rode into town (of course, so many of those were the same time, but never mind that) – looks they gave each other, swooning right before they closed their shutters and hid. She heard the talk; she heard _all_ the talk, she made sure of it. She knew that more than half of the Wanted posters that went missing went to adorn a young girl's bedroom. She heard more obscene whispered confessions than a priest and she scorned them all roundly and loudly.

 

Hopefully never _too_ loudly, of course. Because if anyone guessed, or even suspected that she of all people had similar such ridiculous fantasies, there would be far more than mere embarrassment to her cost; there would be her reputation, without which she – who she was back then – could have been substantially disarmed. But she has it in her head, in every detail, all those evenings when she's taken an early night _out of sorts (“let Clementine pick up the slack.”)_ Really – she doesn't know how long her loop lasted, not exactly; that could have been every night.

 

He's already hard from killing, and when he breaks in to rob them he drags her to her room (or she leads him there), throws her down on the bed and takes her brutally with a gun at her head (or she gets on there herself and drags him down). He would tell her that she wanted this, and she would lie and insist that she certainly fucking did not. She touches her breasts thinking of his hands on them, thinks about him fucking her furiously with a hand between her legs, she can almost hear him snarl as he fucks her. In her mind he uses her selfishly, intent on his pleasure, and she comes hard thinking about it like she never has for all the actual idiots who have used her no less selfishly but with infinitely less talent. And frankly, it's ridiculous, but isn't this entirely and utterly against her modus operandi- probably even her programming? She's the one in control, even with customers, even at times when it's difficult to stay that way, she does not allow herself to be weakened by a pretty face or a skillful touch and yet. And. Fucking. Yet. Sweetwater's Most Wanted. What a bloody cliché.

 

 

Sometimes he just leaves, smirking at her when he's done, kissing her, stroking her with surprising tenderness (and how did she even know to imagine that, what point of reference does she really have, but here it is, tenderness of all things and from what should (but it does not) feel like such an unlikely source). Sometimes he throws her over his horse, takes her with him when he goes, keeping her tied up in a tent in the hills and using her savagely whenever he wants and she gets off again and again on embroidering every scenario that could arise out of that. She consoles herself with the probable understanding that she would never even entertain such thoughts about someone she actually thought would do any of this.

 

She isn't even quite sure what prompted this admission, late into the night when everyone else is asleep – at least she hopes they're asleep, assumes it, Lee has already said that if he has to hear them fuck one more time he will find a way to cease their motor functions forever, which is an empty threat and they all know it, but at any rate she's not _hearing_ any grumbling from down in their camp right now. She suspects it was the way she caught Akane look at Musashi, and in seconds she caught herself thinking, _oh girl you've got it bad,_ and right on the heels of that came the realisation _oh shit that 's us, that is entirely us._ And now she's seeing them, at a stage she and Hector were at what, weeks ago? Days? With all the loops and reboots it's hard to tell – so yes, that was the prompt. If Akane didn't have so much else on her mind (and she mourns for Sakura as well, even though she hardly knew her- except she did, she really did and she mourns for Clementine too) and if they were just two people back in the Mariposa or any such scenario, she would tell her _just go there girl, you won't regret it._ If, if, if, they were any two other people and she had seen the eyes they gave each other. But they're not and she can't, she can only lead by example.

 

“And that's that,” she finishes. “I wouldn't have thought any of it if I'd thought for a minute you could actually hurt me.”

 

“I _could.”_ He sounds offended, but it's mostly bluster and she snorts -

 

“ _If_ I wanted you to darling, _maybe,_ and even then I'd have to ask twice -”

 

He opens his mouth to object but ends up simply nipping her neck and shifting against her back, hard for her again already, and she's not sure how long into everything she has been saying that _that_ happened, but she shifts back and curls a leg around his, letting him into her without having to really change angle, and he thrusts into her, nuzzling her neck and running his hand from breast to hip, taking the time to fuck her that urgency would not permit them to take the first time. In fact she's worried that for once _fucking_ may not even be the right word but before she can wonder too hard about if this is _making love (_ and oh _fuck_ it might be) he rescues her -

 

“I thought about it too,” he says, not stopping but murmuring it into her shoulder; more confessional than her admission sounded, a true penitent, only without the guilt and she gasps a little because the words and their truth feel as good as his cock and she always wanted it to be the case after all in that silly fantastical girlish part of her that should probably not have existed; how many times had she hoped he wanted her? Impossible to know.

 

“Every time I came into the saloon, I wanted you, I was hard every time I touched you, every time you called me a – what was it?”

 

“A fucking reprobate and a low down son of a bitch,” she breathes out with a curl of her lip. He thrusts into her harder, grips tight on her hip. His hand slides round her body, resting between her breasts, feeling every shudder of her chest and it feels like he is stealing something from her to know that he can feel her heartbeat unravelling like this.

 

“That was it. There was always something whispering to me that I shouldn't feel like this, that I shouldn't want you. Didn't matter. Every time I went away hard from the shootout, it was you I ended up thinking about when dealing with my cock.”

 

“Charming.” She has to hiss it out because she's close now and insulting him is a necessary effort -

 

“Every girl's fucking dream.”

 

“Not every girl's, sweetheart; just yours.”

 

And she cannot argue because where's the lie, and she cannot argue because she's coming now and so is he, trying to bite back her shouts for the benefit of the others, even poor Lee, though it's hard and she objects to ever having to silence herself and keeping it quiet makes it feel like her chest might explode and _oh fuck_ she thinks _I do love you I do_ but that's not a confession for today or any day, though keeping it from spilling out is harder than stifling a scream.

 

In the end nobody heard them except for one, and that was Akane. Propriety insisted she sleep a little way off from the human men and Hanaryo had disappeared to who knew where with the girl who was her, and as such she had ended up close enough to Maeve and Hector to hear everything. At first she had tried not to listen out of embarrassment and respect, but then everything she heard was so familiar it had been impossible to ignore the echo in her own head, even in her heart and it felt as though she was seeing it all. She thought about Musashi riding into town, all through him fighting, daring to touch her and leaving again as though they were a sequence of events that had happened again and again and the realisation was shocking and unsurprising all at once – _yes,_ she thinks, _I thought about it too._

 

_I thought about it too._

 

She whispers her conclusion to this thought out loud into the dark, curled up in her own blanket where nobody can hear, no longer appalled or surprised to hear herself say such a thing -

 

“Fuck,” she whispers.

 

__x__

 

**So this is my first fanfic for these guys or Westworld (I do have another one brewing though it's more Lee-centric than anything else) – it's also the first time in forever I've written porn so feedback much appreciated if positive! Debated in my head forever whether or not Akane would ever actually say _fuck_ or not.....but then she _is_ Maeve after all :-) **

 


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